I return to visit my words weekly,
And swallow the wisdom as my religion
I am a writer, prophet, and a philosopher looking not for a pulpit,
But words stolen long ago
To love women is what I desire.
Lies, lust, and breakfast in bed.
I read my friend Bukowski,
And do not know how to truly take him in from the streets.
I see him and I on the same train together, but years apart.
We read the same newspaper, same stories, and secondhand triumphs.
Eventually the game of my life blends with my epic fiction and the
Way I choose the world to be rolls out on the field to play ball.
The walks along the river, ocean breezes, women scorned, and subway trains become the same song of fate.
The stories are a journey of windy days long deceased.
The memories are now worn out kites flown in the skies of majesty and pulled from the branches of life as if a tall pecan tree.